


The Taste Of Two

by AJ_Lenoire



Series: The Taste of Life [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Remembers, F/M, Fluff, Humour, Slice of Life, but still pretty background, some more stony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_Lenoire/pseuds/AJ_Lenoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky — or, as Natasha calls him, Barnes — is well on the way to recovery, and a friendship is growing fast between the two. But what happens when the arrival of a certain god of thunder throws those plans out the window, and brings into play a whole new factor?</p><p>Natasha's not sure whether this factor will mend her heart, or break it beyond repair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste Of Two

**Author's Note:**

> Woo-hoo! Next part! This was interesting to write and I would like to thank my comrade cumberrachel (worth checking out if you like Stucky, Stony or just want to check out the gay) for the little Stony moments, because up until now they've been very subtle hints of my own (somewhat crappy) design.

* * *

**_2015 – New York, NY, USA_ **

It had been three months. Twelve weeks. One hundred days.

He'd arrived earlier than that; stumbled his way home in the darkness of the night, found a part of himself in his old friend, began to piece his past and mind back together, away from HYDRA's destruction and torture. Through the familiarity of a lover long-lost, she had offered her aid with this broken man, out of affection for her Captain, and an old, tentative and uncertain love for her Soldier. That had been ages ago, _seeemed_ ages ago; like a whole other lifetime, and now it was three months more. Three months since Natasha Romanoff had woken from a nightmare and screamed. Twelve weeks since Barnes had choked her, reverting to his Winter Soldier ways. One hundred days since they had danced, since she'd accepted his offer of a drink, since she'd told him of “the man” she loved.

He still didn’t know it was — _used to be_ — him.

It didn't matter if he ever makes that connection; if he ever remembered his other life, the one where he wasn't Sergeant Bucky Barnes, Howling Commando and best friend (brother) of Steve Rogers. It didn't matter if he never remembered his time as James, his time as the Soldier, when he was more than their deadly puppet. It was enough for her to at least have him know that man existed, even if he never realises he _was_ that man. She trusted James, and she was willing to learn about Bucky. She had already begun to become his friend, and she found that she liked him. James and Bucky were not all that different.

She woke up and looked out the glossy window of her room. No, not window, it was more like a glass wall. She was the lone occupant of her floor. Well, strictly speaking that wasn't true, she shared her floor with Clint, but he was off on a mission (that's what she told the others, anyway). She was still undercover as much as possible, giving time for her covers to become ingrained into society. Stark had been a great help, though she was loath to admit it — not in her covers, she wouldn't even trust Clint to help her with those, but with giving her a place to lay low (or as low as one could lie in an iconic and conspicuous tower in the middle of one of the largest cities on the planet). She desperately wanted to find her own place, and whilst she had no shortage of offers (her room in Clint's farmhouse, Steve's guest bedroom, her floor in Stark tower) she wanted to find a place that is _hers_. She'd had one, before Chitauri had rained down on New York and pretty effectively flattened it (not that she'd had many — or any — personal effects there, but it _had_ been her home), but between the Avengers and SHIELD and HYDRA she'd just never had the time to find one.

The sun was shining, sparking off the rooftops of the skyscrapers, glinting teasingly as they reminded her of a different metal, a different shape. One that was _part_ of a man and not a home for one. Scowling, she rolled over on to her other side, facing the closed door of the room. She wished Clint was there. She'd lost count of how many times they'd fallen asleep in each other’s arms; for safety, comfort or protection. When one was injured the other played doctor, when one was scared the other played parent. She’d never been sure exactly what it was, other than the fact that romance had absolutely nothing to do with it (even when they were lovers, it had been more about release and helping one another out that romance), but she liked it. In early days, it drove her mad; not being able to but a fine label on it. That was one of the many obsessions that the Red Room programmed into her, that Clint programmed out. She still hadn't found the perfect label; it lay somewhere between _friends_ and _siblings_.

But it was no use, rolling over. She was awake and that was that. So she pulled herself out of bed and padded downstairs. She usually wore a tank-top and pyjama shorts; something light that permitted movement, lest she was attacked in her sleep (yes, that was paranoid, but spies are paranoid by nature), and today was no different. It didn't matter, though; it wa still perfectly decent – and besides, Clint was practically her brother, Steve was too shy and proper, Banner wasn't interested and Stark wouldn't have a shot with her if he was the last man on earth. Plus, he knew that as pretty as Natasha may look, she wasn't worth dying for (she had a body count to prove it). Also, though he swung both ways, he was clearly looking in the opposite direction at the moment.

* * *

Steve was the only Avenger present when she came down to the communal room. Barnes was there, too, and though she didn’t show it, she immediately found herself wishing she was wearing something more covering. She'd found a good friend in Bucky, and the two men were similar, but James was still the one she longed for. James was the man who _knew_ her, who'd been her staunchest ally and dearest friend and first love. But James was still locked away. She didn’t know he has been twitching, wakening, slightly, for a few months. It’d been too slight for her to notice, and if she _had_ noticed, she would have dismissed it as hopeful. Barnes still didn’t remember her, he knew her only as Natasha, the mysterious _femme-fatale_ , whose life and story was as illustrious and elusive as any.

Bucky would have been lying if he said he didn’t find it (and her) captivating, but was still too mixed up to be thinking about asking her on a date. That and, judging from what Steve had told him, he'd end up dead if he asked her anyway. Not that he asked about her constantly, of course; just in passing. But Steve would have been lying if he said he hadn’t noticed how Bucky seemed to connect more with Natasha than anyone.

He'd found himself conflicted about that. Despite how little Natasha had actually revealed, he’d learned a great deal of espionage from her (as well as pop-culture references) by order of Fury; preparing him for the present. As such he had learned to read her quite well (with some help from Clint, of course), and he had come to realise that Natasha had done a lot more than _known_ Bucky in his KGB days. She'd talked about him fondly, telling him that he hadn’t been turned into a machine right from the get go, that he’d been human (or, as human as you could be in the Red Room). Only he’d been too human, so they’d had to take extreme measures. Steve now reckoned he knew what _too human_ meant.

He knew what someone looked like when they love someone.

Because he’d seen it – albeit with a heavy dose of confusion – in Bucky’s eyes too.

“Morning, Nat.” Steven smiled at her, and she smiled back, but her eyes remained fixed on Bucky. She hadn't expected him to be there; he still didn’t like lots of company and so he'd tended to avoid communal areas. No doubt it was Steve being a good friend, trying to coax him back out.

Over the past few weeks Barnes really had come back into his own as Bucky, and Steve was over the moon to have his friend (albeit changed and damaged but no more than Steve himself had been post-ice) back. They sustained long conversations now, apparently, and she'd smiled when he'd told her that. Even if James was beyond her reach, at least Bucky was not beyond Steve’s, and she was happy for him. But there were  still those moments... those moments where she could see where Bucky and James blend and connect to be the same person. A smile, a phrase, a look. And her heart would crack a little more and she would be left confused as a child, because that’s what he'd done to her. What he’d always done to her. Reduced her to a child.

“Morning.” she replied, her voice flat and level and impossible to deduce. She sat at the breakfast bar, not awkwardly close to them but not pointedly far; an ambiguous difference, hard to gauge from even a trained eye. She felt their gazes upon her as she ate, Bucky’s more than anything, and she remembered the talk she'd had with Banner a few weeks ago.

 _“It’s...strange.” Banner eventually admitted, “He remembers...most of his life. His first life, that is. There are still some gaps, but he is mostly the Bucky Steve remembers. Everything about the KGB, about HYDRA–”_ about me _, she adds in her mind, “–is sort of...locked up. He doesn’t remember any of that, at least not consciously.”_

_“Will he ever?”_

_Banner sighed heavily, “I honestly have no idea.” he replied solemnly._

She took a drink of juice to hide her shining eyes. She thinks she got away with it because she can read Steve like a book and he was definitely unaware. She tried to read Bucky but found it hard, because even _he_ didn’t always know what he was feeling or thinking. So she thinks she got away with it.

But Bucky noticed.

* * *

Later, she was alone in the training room. It was her favourite room in the tower. Sure, it didn't have state-of-the-art computer tech in it, or a bed like a cloud, or a flat-screen the size of a wall, but those were all things _Stark_ liked. The training room of the tower had been made according to her; according to her and Clint and Steve; the soldiers and spies who knew what they liked and needed. One of the punching-bag fixtures was super-reinforced for Steve, so he'd stop punching bags across the room so easily. Because of the trust she had brokered with Steve, she had confessed to him something only a few other people knew (though she was sure many others whispered about it, the way nosy SHIELD agents had. The Hub had been like a gossip column, _honestly_ ). The people she trusted with secrets like her past, people like Clint and Fury. She'd explained that the Red Room had come close to replicating Erksine's serum, and how she had a version of it pumping through her own veins. She liked to keep that on the down-low, usually, though, so when she trained, she pulled her punches (not nearly as much as Steve, though), she never let loose, let _go_.

But now she was alone, so she could, and she walked up to the reinforced fixture with the fresh punching bag dangling innocently, _begging_ to be struck. She wasn't strong enough to send it flying across the room like Steve as easily as he could, but that wasn't to say she couldn't. Steve could smash a man's face in hard enough to kill him, all with one punch, and he would still be pulling himself back more than a little. She could probably do the same to the same man, but she would have to give it her all. She'd never trusted SHIELD records all that much; they were too easily leaked (once by her). According to the world, she'd been born in 1984 and had no special abilities other than simple and rigorous training. In truth, she had been born decades earlier, and was ("approximately" because she had never been properly tested by doctors) about a third as strong as Steve Rogers. She was tired of holding things back all the time. As a spy, she was offered so few opportunities to let go. She was alone in the training room. Her fists were wrapped in tape. She wasn't going to pass this opportunity up. She flexed her fingers, and set to work on the bag, finally letting loose all her rage, her fear and her confusion. She loved James and she _hated_ him. Buck was her friend and she _abhorred_ him. Barnes was dear to her and she wanted to _rip his throat out_. He'd abandoned her, broken her heart, made her fend for herself in that cruel world. She had burned down the Red Room to bloody ashes for him, and he had _no idea_.

She didn't realise she was crying out; screaming, even, until Stark popped his head in and asked if she was okay. She silenced him with a glare, too irritated to explain away, not trusting enough to tell the truth. Stark only shrugged; it didn't matter to him. In a way, that was one of the reasons she liked him as much as he did. He was always there to ignore the elephant in the room. To discuss the trivial. She bit down on her own shouting, but didn't stop hitting the bag. She was in a good rhythm, and the sound of her fist colliding with the canvas, the sensation of force rippling up her arm, was oddly addictive right now. _Force_. If this was a person she'd be causing them pain. She'd be hurting them, making them suffer. _Punishment_. For all those men whose deaths had been too quick. The men who had taken her from her family, from her home. The ones who had taken her childhood. Taken her body. Taken her friend. Taken half of her life. Taken her very mind. _But not her soul_. Never her soul.

"Hey!" Tony's voice broke through the bubble she'd built up around herself again; so quickly reformed in just a few moments. She decided to stop then, and turned to look at him. She wasn't sweating — _I never sweat, Rogers, I glow_ , she'd once joked, but something the Room had done to her meant she literally didn't sweat as much as a normal person. God forbid their beautiful Black Widow _sweated_. “You coming up to the roof?” Tony continued.

She frowned “No,” she replied, “Why would I?” As she stepped back to resume her assault, this time in the form of kicking, Tony answered,

“Well, Thunder-Man’s coming to visit and I thought you might wanna be in the welcoming party.” He shrugged, “But if you don’t want to, that’s fine. _Rude_ , but fine.” He smirked when she stopped and turned to look at him.

“I’ll be up in fifteen.” She told him as shortly as she ever told him anything, throwing a towel over her shoulders and taking a drink from her waterbottle.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, she’d had a very quick shower and thrown on some regular clothing ("civvies" as Clint called them; over the years, the name had grown on her). As she made her way up to the roof of the tower, she heard other voices, and realised that Steve and _Barnes_ were there, too. She felt queasy, but pushed it down because she _actually liked_ Bucky’s company, even if it was a slap in the face; a cruel reminder of a time gone by.

But she still liked him; Bucky was a nice guy, and Steve deserved him. After losing so much, he deserved a break (hell, he deserved about fifty, but life was cruel like that. He was the pinnacle of mankind, one of her dearest friends and one of the only people she trusted - and _she_ was one of the only people _he_ trusted, despite his good-nature, he was wary - and he had been dealt one of the roughest hands she'd ever seen). Because of Barnes, her friendship with Steve had become all the stronger. The nights she’d spent talking to Steve, helping him adjust to this different Bucky, serving as his go-to babysitter... It was like they’d become parents for this confused ghost of a man. Now he was stronger and more mentally whole, she wasn't sure if _family_ was as accurate, but she still found that, whilst she would probably never have James again, she had somehow integrated him into this circle of super-soldiers and demigods, this family she'd somehow built for herself. These people she genuinely _liked_. She wasn't yet sure if it was love — the sort she felt for Clint and her would-be sister-in-law, her sort-of niece and nephew — but she liked Barnes, and considered him at least a part of her Avengers family.

At that thought, she had to marvel at how she — the Black Widow of all people — had managed to find herself such a large and varied family. Granted, one half didn't know about the other half, and it wasn't her secret to share (it wasn't even Clint's, so an extent; he wasn't the secret wife), but still; she had a _family_. The one thing the Red Room had promised she would never have. _The Black Widow does not have a family, or friends. She is a spy, a seductress, an assassin. She is an operative for great purpose, a scalpel with which to carve the new world. The Black Widow cannot, will not, and shall not love. Love is for children._

She felt a savage thrill as she walked out onto the roof. _Watch me._

As she reached the top step, and emerged to the roof of Avengers Tower (legally it's still Stark Tower, but they've long since stopped calling it that), she saw a circle of her strange new family standing around a sort of helicopter launch pad (but instead of an _H_ , it was an Avenger _A_ , _trust Tony_ ). They’d left a space for her, whether it was deliberate or subconscious she couldn’t say, but stood there anyway. Stark, Bucky, Clint, Steve, Pepper, and Banner were all there. She wondered if they'd been waiting exclusively for her, or if Thor was finishing his Asgardian hairdo before coming down to visit the mortals. Either way, once she was in place, Stark nodded smartly with an expression that suggested _now we can begin._ Countless experiment failures had instilled in her a very real terror whenever she saw that expression, and she grimaced.

Steve threw her a grateful (and vaguely sympathetic) smile and she found herself returning it, though it became slightly forced when she noticed Bucky smiling shyly at her. She refused to let the ghosts of the past haunt her, _she refused_. They'd done that for too long, and she had to accept that Barnes was not James. She wanted to get to know Bucky, she wanted to like him as a different person, as who he was _supposed_ to be, because after all, Bucky had come first, James was the Red Room's toy. And yet...

 _He looks so much like James..._ she thought, almost wistful, _is it wrong for me to find him cute?_

She wasn't sure, but she did. He looked different, though, too. James smouldering solemnness was mixing with Bucky’s cheerfulness; his... _jauntiness_. He was both completely different and identical to her James, and she found that whilst he was a painful reminder, he was also a pleasant new acquaintance.

It was all very confusing.

But she pushed those thoughts aside when Stark raised his hands to his mouth and called t the empty sky, “ _OKAY, HEIMDALL! OPEN THE BIFROST!_ ” And there was a tremendous _crash_ as lightning spilled from the sky to strike right at the heart of the Avenger helipad and a dark shadow of a figure crouched on one knee began to materialise in the center. As it rose to stand, above all the electricity crackling, Natasha heard a terrified yell that her brain instantly recognised as Bucky’s.

For a moment she was confused, and at the next moment, she was worried. Bucky had never met Thor before, true, but surely _somsone_ would have told him what was happening. Even though seeing it was different... no, something was wrong. Even if he didn't know of Asgard and Loki or the Rainbow Bridge – the Bifrost. _Something was wrong_. He sounded terrified out of his mind, but it wasn't the sort of terrified that made you go _aww_ and wait until it was safe.

No, James Bucky Barnes was one of the few people that can drag the Widow from her hideout in Natasha’s mind, turn her once more into the deadly assassin she was raised and warped to become. Without thinking, Natasha leapt across the helipad, somehow avoiding the lightning (probably because she wasn’t made of metal) and landed in a crouch next to Bucky. Without thinking, she fell to her knees beside him and put a hand to his jugular, letting lose a breath when she felt his pulse, a little weak, but steady. Without thinking she moved to place his head on her lap, not because he was James, because he _wasn't_ , but because the floor was stone and solid. His metal arm had been easily enough to divert the electricity of the lightening into his own body, and it was a miracle his heart was still pumping.

“Do...” Steve was on his knees beside her, jaw slack with horror, “Do we call an ambulance?”

Natasha shook her head, “No.” She replied, “We’ve got all we’d need here, and I don’t think a hospital would be the best place for him.”

Bruce then came into his own as the doctor and scientist he was, and pushed them aside. Steve was reluctant to leave his friend behind and Natasha was just as hesitating, but when she felt Clint’s hand on her shoulder she finally stepped back, but her eyes didn't leave Bucky’s still form.

“My apologies, friends.” Thor’s normally jovial voice was quiet and guilty, “I meant no harm to your comrade, please accept my humblest apologies.”

“It’s not your fault, Thor.” Steve said immediately, and Natasha had to smile because he was just so sweet and forgiving, and she wished she, too, could always see the world so lightly, so easily rub away the dark patches, so easily see herself as he saw her; a friend and someone worth saving. That said, the only reason he was the one to comfort Thor was because her own mouth was not quick enough, but she took the Asgardian’s hand and gave it a squeeze that said just the same. She could never blame Thor, he was simply too... _nice_. He just _was_. Sort of like a big brother.

“I didn’t know his arm would be a conductor up here,” Tony added, “I thought the metal of the tower would be enough.” It was a rare day for Tony to admit he was wrong or didn't know something, but in their concern for Barnes, no one made the slightest attempt to poke fun.

Banner finsiehd examining Barnes as the others greeting Thor absently and solemnly. “He’s fine.” he told them eventually, “Some minor burns around the seam of his metal arm, and he’s in for a headache, but no long-lasting damage, as far as I can see.” Natasha breathed a sigh of relief, slightly more than the others (except maybe Thor and Steve). She felt a stab of anger at herself. _He's not James, he's not James, **he's not James**._

* * *

Later, after Bucky was trated and resting, the mood had improved, and Tony was wasting no time in teasing Thor about Jane – who, as it turned out, had been aware of Thor’s arrival (once more thanks to Tony) and had brought Darcy along with her. Natasha likeed Darcy, sensed a kindred spirit in her, and she enjoyed talking to the girl. Though she’d never admit it to anyone – particularly Darcy or Thor – she didn’t like Jane all that much. She seemed a nice enough girl and Thor clearly adored her, but there was something about her that Natasha found... grating. But she was polite enough, and she'd made her name in feigning interest in old men. If she could pretend to enjoy a fifty-year-old groping her, she could easily pretend she found Jane’s conversation riveting.

Steve, safe in the knowledge that Banner knew what he was doing, allowed himself to get caught up in Tony’s competition. The philanthropist, it seemed, was as interested in finding out who of Thor or Steve was ‘better’ as he was in arc-reactor technology. As such, he had designed a number of competitions for the two to partake in: a weight-lifting competition, a super-reinforced dumbbell machine (ie, who could punch the hardest), and, most importantly: _who could drink the most?_

The question was eventually answered when Thor broke out some Asgardian alcohol to speed things up, and Steve had to lean on Tony to sing _The Star-Spangled Banner_ at the top of his voice. It was answered further when Steve turned to Tony on the dying notes of the anthem and said, in a very loud, very drunk voice.

"You know what I wanna do? I want... to take you up to my room... get that stupid shirt off you... those pants, too... and show you the muscle that the super-soldier serum had _nothing_ to do with." There were raucous hoots and Tony blushed (though Natasha had long since decided that Tony Stark was unable to blush), and then Natasha announced that it was probably time that the _star-spangled-man-with-a-plan_ got his beauty sleep. Tony aideds Natasha in helping Steve back to his room (mostly because Steve refused to let Tony go, like he was suddenly a safety-blanket or something), where they half-threw him onto the bed and watched as he fell asleep almost at once, the room filled with soft snores and partial phrases of a drunken national anthem. No doubt he would be mortified when he woke up the next morning to hear of his inebriated escapades.

“He’s a little angel when he sleeps.” Tony joked, and chanced putting a hand on Natasha’s shoulder as though they were a married couple regaridng their son. Natasha didn;t like it; she'd felt like that all too much over these past months, and she'd grown tired of it. But, it also sort of fit. Over the past few months it had fallen to the two of them more than anyone else to help Steve. First with technology, now with Bucky. For this reason, she smirked at the poor joke and didn’t break Tony’s arm.

“He is,” she agreed, and she wasn't lying. A war hero he may have been, but it seemed he would always retain that simple innocence about him. For all his strength and ferocity, there was no raging god among his features, not like in hers; he was as protective as she but was inherently _good_ in all eyes, where as she was only good in a few; those who really cared about her and strove to find that good. She was SHIELD’s best female agent, and one of the best _full-stop_ , but she was only “good” when her capability and skill is being discussed.

“I think I’ll sleep on their couch tonight.” She then told Tony, “Keep an eye on them both, y’know?”

“I’ll tell Legolas,” Tony smirked in reply, “He won’t be pleased.” Before he spoke at all, however, he removed his hand from her shoulder and tactfully moved out of her reach (as if that would stop her if she really wanted to harm him).

She was also tired herself, and unlike Tony she didn't return to the party downstairs; sleep was calling too her, and its song was too sweet for her to resist any longer (plus, when it came to Avengers Tower, even the couches were like clouds to sleep on). She just wanted to sleep, so she darted down to her floor to get a blanket and a pillow, before returning to the “Captain America Floor” as Stark has called it (the floor button isn’t so much numbered as it is a Captain America shield) and settled down for a calm night’s sleep, too far away for the drunken laughter of Clint and Thor and Darcy and Jane and Tony to disturb her.

* * *

_She is running._

_Once more from herself, once more exhausted, once more covered in not only her own blood but in that of Clint, Steve, Bucky, Tony, Fury, Pepper, Thor and everyone else._

_She can hear herself closing in, running faster; the Widow in her synthetic uniform is much faster than Natasha in her ripped evening dress. The footsteps grow closer and closer, and she is prepared but by no means pleased when she feels a body crash into her own. Sticks puncture her bared flesh and stones carve it, and pinning her down is a woman who wear her face but not her mind. If she were Barnes, then she would be Bucky and the one pinning her down would be the Soldier. Instead, she is Natasha and she is pinned by the Widow._

_“How foolish you are...” Widow snarls, her voice thick and Russian. “As if you could escape the Widow...leave behind the Red and the red. You bear the Room’s mark, you are their finest creation, and you will drown in red before you can cleanse yourself of it.”_

_She feels a knife bite into her flesh now, cutting along her shoulder, and the Widow continues, “You can deny my existence within you...you can supress me all you like, but I exist nonetheless and I will break free one day. And the same goes for your precious_ James _.”_

* * *

Natasha woke in a cold sweat, not screaming but sort of whimpering, as though she wanted to cry but somehow couldn’t. It was the same nightmare as last time, only slightly different. However, no less terrifying. She was still regaining her bearings when she heard a door open, and turned, terrified, for a moment thinking it was an intruder, for a moment forgetting that in a full Avengers Tower no one _could_ intrude, and reaching for the gun she always kept under her pillow, no matter where she slept. She hadn't so much as hit the safety release before she relaxed; she knew that silhouette, that light gait, that blonde hair. Steve.

He was clearly still half-drunk, just from how he was standing so slackly, but he seemed a lot better than before given that now he was able to stand under his own weight. He gave her a comforting smile, and his eyes didn’t look too glazed over; they were tracking her a little sluggishly, but still tracking her.

“Trouble sleeping?” he asked, but even he, in his alcohol-addled brain, knew that sleep had never come easy to her. There were some days when she could fall asleep quite normally, but those days were very few and very far between. Often she lay awake for hours, or woke frequently only to quickly fall back into a different nightmare. But she rarely wakes so violently. Barnes’ presence had resonated with her on a psychological level.

“A little.” she managed a small, sarcastic smile, and he grinned at her.

“Y’know, you might sleep a little better in an actual bed.” he told her, and for a moment she felt offended, until she realised he wasn't insinuating she go sleep in her own bed on her own floor, but rather that he was offering, just as Clint had done on numerous times (and she to Clint) to share a bed with her and scare away the nightmares.

Because of the trust she’d come to build with Steve, she didn't hesitated; only smiled a genuine smile and accepted. She lay down in his bed, and once more she smelled his cologne (and whether she liked him or not she had to admit it smelled really nice). She felt him lie down beside her and lie on his back, and she shuffled so her head was resting on his shoulder and her hand was over his heart, beating slow and steady. One of his arms curled around her protectively, and his other was raised to pillow his own head. It could have easily been a lovers' embrace, but it wasn't. She wasn't asking for anything; she didn’t _want_ anything in the way of sex, she simply wanted to feel him against her; Steve, _her friend_ ; and to know that there was someone there. She had a feeling that he wanted that, too, because she knew that she was not the only Avenger who's dreams were haunted with the ghosts of their past. She very much doubted there was _any_ Avenger who regularly slept peacefully.

And so they fell asleep, hugging and guarding one another, friends and allies and protectors in sleep as though in waking, like children in a fairytale. And for the first time in months, neither of them woke, or had a nightmare.

* * *

When she woke up the next morning, Natasha realised she’d curled herself even tighter against Steve in her sleep; hugging him tightly around his ribs as though worried for him, or scared for herself. It looked like they’ve slept together – which, in a manner of speaking, they _had_ – but she didn’t overly mind. Many a night had passed with her and Clint falling asleep like this; on missions and off duty, protecting each other in their sleep (though, admittedly, they weren't as common nowadays. Even if they were entirely platonic, there were still boundaries).

Steve was still asleep when she woke, presumably still sleeping off the effects of the alcohol, and was turned slightly away from her, jaw slack, mouth slightly open. She pried herself from his grip and he still didn’t wake. Deciding to leave him be,  she left a large glass of water by his bedside, a couple of aspirin (for all the good it would do, she added in retrospect), and eased out of his room as quietly as possible. As more of an afterthought, she decided it was best to check on James, and see how he was doing. Particularly, if his burns needed treating. Banner had given her some antibiotic ointment and there was sure to be some gauze and linen in the First Aid Kit that Tony had insisted (weirdly, considering Tony wasn’t known for his safety precautions) were placed in every one of the Tower’s mini apartments.

So, she retrieved said First Aid Kit, and the ointment from the kitchen top, then eased herself into Bucky’s room. More and more she had begun to think of him as Bucky, she had realised that the Soldier and Bucky were two separate entities, James the strange amalgamation she had met, and fallen in love with. It was a strange parallel to her own person; the Widow and Natalia were two separate entities, and Natasha was the result of what they became when they were allowed to coexist.

Bucky was asleep when she entered; asleep and not unconscious. His burn had been bandaged up already, but she knew the dressing needed changing. Carefully, she made her way over to his bedside and perched on the edge of the bed. She couldn’t help but marvel at him a little. At the end of the day, he still looked exactly like the man she had loved, and in sleep he looked oddly familiar. His hair had long since been cut a little neater, but as of yet had not been cut shorter; Barnes having opted for the time being (or simply not cared enough to propose a change) to keep it more or less as it was. Having seen the pictures of Bucky when he was younger, and with “stick-insect Steve”, Natasha could honestly say he looked equally fetching with long or short hair.

But soon enough she shook herself from her daydreams, her memories of missions and nights with James, and her hand came away from her chest, where half a heart still beat, its other half, its pair, so close and yet so far.

Forcing her thoughts of James from her head, she focused on the burn, carefully prying away the bandages from the seam of his left arm. It was far more healed than a normal person’s burn would be, but still required another set of bandages. She had only just touched the cool ointment to the warm skin and warmer-than-you’d-think-but-still-pretty-cold metal, when his eyes snapped open at the sensation. She jumped a little, but only a little. She was the Widow and it wasn’t that scary and at least he wasn’t choking her this time. But she’s somewhat confused at the intensity of his gaze. He’s gotten used to her company now, he’s cheerful and a good friend. So why does he look so scared? And then, he rasps out in a voice that she never thought she would hear again.

“ ** _Natalia?_** ”

* * *

“How...?” Natasha couldn’t finish the question, but she could look at him, and she did, her eyes impassive to most, but to him, the one who had taught her all she knew, they were an open book. He saw betrayal and anger and confusion. She was still sat on his bed, burn ointment on her hands as she had been intending to treat his burn, before he woke up and spoke her name, her _real_ name.

_Before he woke up as James._

Every neuron in her brain had short-circuited, because that wasn't possible, _it wasn't possible_. James had been _erased_ with the Soldier, those memories were _lost_ thanks to that vile machine. HYDRA and the KGB and Department X and all the organisations that had pooled together to create their Black Widows and their Winter Soldiers had scraped out his mind and shoved in their mindlessly obedient puppet. James could not exist, _he didn't exist_.

And yet he was. Inexplicably, he _was_.

“James?” Her voice was disbelieving.

“ _Natalia?_ Yeah?” he replied. Then he dropped her gaze, confused. One sentence had been a question of her name. The other had been an acknowledgement of his hearing her. Natasha frowned, something nudging at her mind. Was this really James? Or just a... death throe? A twitch of a corpse after it's dead; a stray electrical impulse. James, after all, was supposed to be gone. She decided to test him.

“ _James, can you understand me?_ ” she asked him, in Russian.

“ _Yes_. What did you say?” Once more he dropped her gaze to look confused and contemplating. One sentence had been in Russian. The other had been in English. Barnes - _Bucky_ \- was monolingual. Following his release from the Block, shortly after he'd begun talking in English full-time, it was like the other languages had faded away. The potential still existed, as Banner had said the brain never deletes anything, but the languages had been “locked away”. Bottom line: Bucky didn't speak Russian. He just didn't. The Russian was all - could only _be_ \- James.

“Maybe we should get you to Banner.” she says slowly,

“Yeah, I think that’s– _Who’s Banner, Natalia?_ ” Natasha cringed, confused and more than a little worried. Whatever elation she might have felt was crushed by concern and incomprehension. _What's going_ _on_ _?_

* * *

“What do you want?”

Banner was sleep-addled and drowsy, and he was leaning against his door in a faded green t-shirt ( _Green?_ **_Really_** _?_ ), an open, white, fluffy dressing gown and a pair of grey pyjama pants that did nothing to hide his case of morning wood. He either didn’t care or didn’t notice, instead he dragged a hand down his face and regarded Bucky standing behind Natasha, looking half confused and half like a fascinated, quiet child. Bucky, though he primarily saw him as a _person_ and _Steve's friend_ and all the things he was, was his favourite case study. A look into the human psyche, the ancient argument of _nature verses nurture_ , and an awful, awful glance into how the mind and body processed torture and conditioning. Any opportunity he was given to examine Barnes, he took.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, standing a little straighter and closing his dressing gown indiscreetly. Natasha nodded, more than a little confused herself.

“He woke up...as James.” she told him, somewhat lamely “I don’t know how...but he remembers me now. And he has two answers to every question.”

“What do you mean _he has two answers to every question?_ ” Banner asked in reply, then held up a hand to stop her, “Wait,” he added, “Give me five minutes to get dressed and get a coffee, I’ll meet you down in the Block.” She wasn’t worried by this; it was also the lab where Banner kept all his research on Bucky/James/the Soldier. So, when Banner closed the door, she gestured to James/Bucky/ _whoever_ to follow her.

To her surprise, he did.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Bucky was sat in the block on a hospital bed, perched on the edge with his shirt off as Banner prodded him. Aside from his (differing) reactions when Banner proceed him, Barnes was examining the room with a slight wariness, as though it was familiar in a bad way. The only reason he _hadn't_ tried to bolt was because of _Natalia_ and Banner.

* _poke_ *

“ _Oy._ ” He muttered, more dejected than painful, flinching away. He glared at Banner, who only looked to Natasha, intrigued and mildly amused.

* _poke_ *

“Ow! Watch it!” This time it was English, and Brooklyn.

“Fascinating...” Banner murmured, taking a small torch and shining it into Barnes' eyes. He blinked and leant back. “Pupillary response is normal...” Banner clicked his fingers near Barnes’ ear and he turned sharply to the noise, “And hearing...” Banner pushed his glasses up his nose and stepped back.

“What is your name?” he asked slowly and smartly.

“Bucky Barnes. _James Barnes_.” Barnes replied, then once more looked away, and his brow furrowed in confusion. Banner scribbled something down on a notepad.

“Who am I?” he asked.

“ _The doctor Natalia told me_ — Bruce Banner, AKA the Hulk.”

“The _Incredible_ Hulk.” Banner murmured, slightly ruffled, but only made another note. He paused for a moment, seemingly in thought, then pointed to Natasha. “Who is this?”

“ _Natalia Romanova_. Natasha Romanoff.” He answered. Banner narrowed his eyes.

“Who is she?” he asked slowly,

“ _The Black—_ Widow.” At that, Banner scribbled something else down; but he did so with the ferocious speed and intensity that only came from a truly fascinated scientist. He then gestured Natasha into the observation room, leaving Barnes to put on his shirt in the Block. He closed the door behind them — though didn't lock it; Barnes was not their prisoner, not anymore — so they might speak in confidence.

“From what I can gather...” Banner said slowly, “His getting struck by lightning triggered the rest of his memories.” Natasha had, frankly, figured that much, but allowed him to continue, “But because of the torture he was put through, the memories are somewhat refusing to manifest and merge like his memories of Bucky did. They’re refusing to take root, so this alternate personality has sort of... formed.” he finished, a little lamely.

“So the... the James _I_ knew...” Natasha began slowly, “He exists? He’s still in there?” She turned to the two-way mirror, watching intently the man inside. He looked mostly confused, lying down on the bed, one leg hanging off, the other bent. One of his hands was behind his head, the metal one rested lightly on his stomach. It looked as though he was waiting for them to come get him so he didn't accidentally interrupt something important, and she instantly saw that as Red Room conditioning. But he also looked relaxed, in his shirt and jeans, unconcerned by time and pleasantly content.

“Yes.” Banner said quietly, “The only problem is... for now... they exist separately. He flits between each one, James doesn’t have Bucky’s memories, and Bucky doesn’t have James’.”

“Will he ever?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. She’d turned away from Banner entirely, one hand on the glass, her face expressionless, but inside she was turmoil.

“Maybe.” He shrugged, “Only time will tell. But his psychotherapy sessions are helping a lot. I’ll prescribe him another session per week, that should help with this...new development.” By ‘ _psychotherapy sessions_ ’, Banner meant ‘ _a long talk in an incredibly clichéd room on his floor_ ’. Tony insisted on having the room all dark red and mahogany, complete with a therapist couch next to a chair. It was cosy but very Hollywood. Mostly Banner just talked with Bucky (obviously, a normal therapist would not have been a viable options given Bucky’s past and the secrets he held) and learned about him, and helped him get through his problems. It was considerably less stressful than India, and it was almost therapeutic for Banner, too. He honestly didn’t mind changing the sessions from two-a-week to three.

Natasha was quiet now, not quite sure how to respond. She was now less confused and more shocked. In the background, behind the shock, her mind had rationalised. Thor’s lightening had indeed sparked – literally – his memories as James to return. Whatever happened now, he was a complete mind. Now he had Bucky and James in his head. She had long ago realised James was some sort of amalgamation of Bucky and the Soldier in terms of personality, but she just wondered what would be more powerful. Would Bucky’s mind reject the Soldier’s qualities in James, or would it accept the Bucky qualities in James?

In short, James was on the precipice, where he could topple into non-existance, and fade away like the Soldier has, or he could be pulled to safety and become part of a whole mind, like Bucky. Only time would tell.

* * *

When Steve finally woke up (with a killer hangover to boot) he was genuinely shocked by what Natasha and Banner told him.

“Two answers?” he asks, a little confused. Bucky is sat at the other end of the long room, watching TV with Clint whilst they talk quietly, though he's been informed about his mental situation. He seems rather unfazed, though that may be because only 'Bucky' is aware of the situation. For 'James' it may take a while for the fact to become known across his psyche.

“To every question, yes.” Banner informs him, and the super-soldier pauses, scratching his head.

“That’s... weird.” he finishes,

“Tell me about it.” Natasha mutters under her breath,

“So... is he still Bucky?” Steve asks, “Does he still remember all that?”

“Oh, yes.” Banner promises him, “Rather, he remembers his James persona – that is, who he was in the KGB – as well. It’s like he’s got two minds in his head. It’ll take him a while to connect them, for them to become parts of a whole mind.”

“Because... he was conditioned into forgetting his life as Bucky? Steve asks slowly, and Banner nods.

“Essentially. I’ll be spending extra sessions with him each week to help him process it. But in the mean time you’ll have to be patient. He’ll be likely to speak in Russian and forget things he already knows.”

“Because he’ll only know them as Bucky, got it.” Steve smiles a little, but Natasha can tell it's a little forced, and when Banner leaves, he turns to her, “I wanna know how thankful I am for how much you’ve helped.” he tells her, “And maybe, by the end of it, we’ll both have our friend back.”

“If you think about it, we already kinda do.” she smiles a little ruefully, even though she’s turmoil inside.

* * *

“I’m worried about Natasha.”

Tony lowers the beer bottle he was raising to his lips, and instead raises his eyebrows as he looked at Steve. It is evening now, and they are sat in the penthouse, the very top floor of the Tower. Below them was Stark’s floor, then, in no particular order, Steve’s (and Bucky’s), and Natasha’s (and Clint’s), followed by about five guest floors, three of which currently occupied, one by Thor and Jane, one by Banner, and one by Darcy. Underneath that was the communal floor where movie nights and (more often than movie nights) juvenile drinking competitions were held.

But the penthouse had been silently and unanimously agreed to be a “special floor” for love-struck couples or rough-patch couples or basically when an important chat or some privacy was needed. This was one such time. In an attempt to help Steve unwind, Tony had presented both the key to the penthouse (to avoid interruptions, there was only one key and it was left on a hook in the communal room) and a six-pack of Steve’s favourite non-alcoholic beer. Steve's mildly but pleasantly surprised about that; he wasn't aware Stark took notice of any favourites but his own.

“We’re _all_ a little worried about Natasha.” Tony said pointedly, “I, for one, am worried she will kill me in my sleep.”

Steve turned, unimpressed, to the philanthropist, “I’m _serious_ , Tony.”

“So am I.” Stark insisted, “She’s not called the Black Widow because she’s got eight legs, Steve.” He had a straight, insistent face...up until Steve turned away and rolled his eyes, at which point Tony started to grin like a child.

“I’m not kidding, though.” He said, laughing, “She scares the crap out of me.”

“She scares the crap out of everyone.” Steve replied now smiling a little too, “She’s just _extra_ scary to you.” He paused, and took a drink from his own bottle, “But what I meant was...this whole thing with Bucky’s really freaked her out.” He knows there was something between Natasha and Bucky – or, as she knew him, James – but he has a feeling that Natasha didn’t tell him everything. Whether or not she did is somewhat moot; she just gives off that vibe.

“It freaked you out, too, y’know.” Tony points out, “And Natasha’s tough, I’m sure she can handle it, and if she can’t, she’ll ask.”

Steve looks at him, “You really think she’s the type to ask for help?” he smirks disbelievingly,

“If Natasha Romanoff ends up in a situation she can’t handle, not asking for help is basically synonymous with a death wish.” Was the reply he received. "And if there's one thing I know about the Black Widow, it's that she doesn't have one."

“Fair point.” Steve admitted, “But I can’t help but worry about her. She’s done a lot for me and Bucky.”

“I’ve done a lot for you, too, y’know.” Tony said, vaguely irritated, “Giving you and Bucky a home, and all...”

Steve turned to him, smiling a little, “Jealous, Stark? That someone else is getting praise besides you?”

Tony shrugged in a trying-to-be-butch way, but it didn’t really work, because all Steve did was laugh. Tony rolled his eyes and grinned a little, though. It _had_ been kinda funny.

“It wouldn’t kill you to show a little appreciation, though.” he muttered, just loud enough for Steve to hear, as he raised the bottle to his lips again.

At this, Steve cocks his head a little and looks at Tony. Something about him is...odd. Maybe its the fact he's rarely gone this long without making a stupid joke - like an arrogant-arse joke. Maybe its because he has yet to gibber on about something unimportant for ten minutes. Maybe its the way he looks in the light - the penthouse has no walls, rather the elevator is in the center of the room, so it's like a glass doughnut. The sunset light helps show his hair is just dark brown and not black, and casts him as though he were a sculpture, not a man. Steve suddenly wishes he had his notepad and pencils, so he could draw Tony. He'd drawn everyone - Natasha mostly, since he liked the female figure and hers was...well, a excellent example of one. But he's never drawn Stark outside of his Iron Man armour.

"What're you staring at, Cap?" Tony asks, grinning, and Steve blushes, turning away. He hadn't realised he'd been staring, and had been so engrossed in the idea of drawing Stark he hadn't noticed Tony had noticed.

"Oh, nothing." he says, trying to feign airiness like Tony and Natasha do constantly, but failing. His blush only deepens and he takes a swig of his beer so he has something to do besides look awkward. Now he's wishing Stark would yammer on about something unimportant, just so he could blush unnoticed.

And Tony's now wishing he was wearing his suit. Not only because it would hide his blush, but because he always felt braver when wearing it, and right now, he needed a little extra bravery to say what was on his mind. For once, words did not come easy. So, they sat in silence and watched the twilight turn to night, both bursting to say what was on their minds, but also not daring.

Eventually, Tony can't take it anymore. He looks at the half-empty bottle in his hand, and wishes it was something stronger - or even remotely alcoholic. The silence is driving him mad.

"You know," he begins, and Steve smiles because he knows this is going to be a classic Tony Stark rant, complete with detailed analysis on unimportant and completely arbitrary ideas, "Even if this beer _was_ alcoholic, it wouldn't make any difference, so I don't know why you just don't drink normal beer..." As he continues, Steve smiles, and just watches him talk animatedly, not even attempting to interrupt and point out that the reason he doesn't drink normal beer it because he doesn't like the taste.

* * *

At the same time, Natasha is helping James/Bucky up to his room. Banner has asked her to observe him, and report any changes in his behaviour. So far, there have been none. They are both sat on his bed, James is lying back, and she is redressing his burn, because she never got a chance to earlier.

As she finishes bandaging up the burned seam, she notices he is watching her.

“ _How could I have forgotten you, Natalia?_ ” he asks her,

“ _You were forced to._ ” she replies, “ _They forced you to. It’s not your fault_.”

“What’re you saying, Natasha?” Bucky then asks her, and she bites her lip, somewhat irritated. She hopes Banner’s sessions prove effective. This is driving her insane. Even more so than when she thought James was gone forever.

“I’m saying...you’ve had a strange day, and your head is still pretty messed up.” She lies. He smiled at her, a hint of the dame-lovin’ soldier he was and still sort of is.

“Trust me, I know.” he says, “I _am_ the one with the screwed up head. I keep blackin’ out, in fact.” His tiredness is emphasised by the thickness of his accent; a more prominent slur on word endings. She supposed that he must be exhausted after the day he's had.

And at his words, she turns to him, alarmed, “You _what_?”

“Well,” he amends, cringing slightly at the concern he is causing, “I can’t remember... everythin’. Like I’ve only been aware of half the day.” He pauses, "I suppose that's when the... the _other_ me is up and around?" He asks, and she nods. The news must not have entirely sunk in yet, because he's being remarkably calm about all this, and not at all discomforted by the idea of another mind in his body, living another life alongside his own, with the same friends and the same face. Then again, they've been dealing in strangeness since the 1940's.

“You should get some rest.” she tells him, “Your mind will learn to adjust eventually.”

“Hope its soon.” he mutters, “Havin’ one screwed up mind was enough, thanks.”

She can’t help but smile a little at the feeble joke. Even if he never loves her, even if James never truly settles in his head and just fades away, she supposes Bucky wouldn’t be that much of a consolation prize. At the very least, she has found a wonderful friend.

“Goodnight, James.” she tells him. And she leaves to go, but he takes her hand, a silent request to stay by her side; the memories and the flitting between his selves scare him, and he wants company. When he’s giving her that look, with big sad eyes that betray a hint of cockiness, she can’t help but concede, and lies down beside him.

She’s on his right side, now. Leaning on his burned shoulder could hurt him. But, when they had shared a bed back in the Red Room, she had slept on the right side anyway. He had always seemed a little ashamed of his metal arm, until, one morning, they woke up spooning, with her as the little spoon, and James’ metal arm was draped over her. They had woken together, and he had made to move the metallic limb away, but she had instead moved her own arms to hold it in place, and hug the warmed metal to her stomach.

It seems James does not remember that, at least not yet, because he feels a little tense when she lies on her side, and puts an arm over his stomach. Not to tease him, or initiate anything, but simply because she’s comfortable like this. He’s wearing a t-shirt, a gag-gift from Tony, because it’s black with a big red star on the chest. He seems to like it though, he laughed when Stark gave it to him. This only made Steve smile; his friend becoming more like himself with each passing day.

His skin is warm underneath the black fabric, but her fingertips brush the metal of his arm and it’s considerably colder. He flinches away slightly from her touch, but she can tell its more surprise that his arm is being touched than anything else – indeed, everyone else in the Tower seems to avoid the arm; looking at it, touching it, pretending it’s not even there. _She_ , however, sees it as a part of him.

There is a long silence, but it’s impossible to measure because James’ clock doesn’t light up or glow in the dark. The only light is that of the moon bleeding though a small gap in the curtains.

“James?” she asks quietly, just because she’s curious, “Are you asleep?” She doesn’t want to move her head from this very comfortable position on his shoulder, but that also means she can’t see his face. The part of his body in her immediate line of sight is his left forearm, lying by his side. His right cheek is resting on top of her hair, his right arm around her. They look like a couple, but they aren’t.

Well, not anymore.

And not yet, either.

“I can’t sleep.” He murmurs to her in reply. He moves his head so they can face each other, and she tilts up her head. From this angle, he could pass for a god in the silvery moonlight, sparking off his hair and turning his eyes to molten bronze. “Too many voices in my head. _So many memories._ ” he adds, switching to Russian.

“You’ll learn, James.” she tells him gently, “You’ll learn to sort everything out, you’ll remember what happened when. And you’ll stablise.” she smiles at him,

“ _Perhaps._ ” he admits, “ _But for now, I still can’t sleep._ ” he turns, and looks at her with soft brown eyes. She can tell he wants to ask something, but is somewhat afraid to. She doesn’t mind though; this is James her friend or maybe even James her old lover. Nothing he asked of her could be bad. So she cocks her head and silently bids he ask her.

“Sing?”

She blinks. She didn’t know Bucky liked to be sang to. And, as far as she knew, James didn’t like to be either. Then again, even if he had, it is not something that would have come up in the Red Room, nor a wish they would have deigned to indulge. To be perfectly honest, she doesn’t know if she can sing, nor if she knows any good songs for sleeping. She was never given lullabies in the Red Room. Then she remembers something. A flicker, perhaps, a tiny memory from the tiny part of her before the Red Room. Before she was given a new birthday and a new name and raised to become a weapon. A single lullaby, that, somewhat hauntingly, rang very true for her.

So she opens her mouth and, with a slightly wavering, unsure voice, begins to sing softly.

“ _Tili-Tili Bom,_ ” she begins, in Russian, because she doesn’t know if there is an English version, much less how it would go.

 _“Close your eyes now,_  
_Someone’s walking outside the house,_  
_And knocking on the door.”_

 _“Tili-Tili Bom,_  
_The nighttime birds are singing,_  
_He’s inside the house,_  
_To visit those who cannot sleep.”_

 _“Tili-Tili Bom,_  
_Can you hear him closing in?_  
_Lurking in the corner,_  
_Staring right at you.”_

 _“Tili-Tili Bom,_  
_The silent night hides everything,_  
_He’ll sneak up behind you,_  
_And he is going to get you.”_

Not an exact version by any means, her memory may be enhanced but it’s not perfect. However, only now does she note the chilling, and slightly unnerving element of the words. She had thought, as a child, that it described a man helping children to dream. Now she’s not so sure, and she begins to wonder if the lullaby was a coincidence, when she herself could have been little Tili-Tili Bom, and the “he” a man of the KGB. She wonders if it was a warning to little girls; to little Tili-Tili Bom, not to trust the men who come in the night.

James, however, is drowsy now, and it seems to have worked. She wonders if he understood the words, and didn’t just listen to her voice. She begins to pull away a little, suddenly feeling like she is overstaying her welcome, suddenly feeling very rude and out of place.

But his arm moves to tighten a little around her waist, asking that she pause for a moment. “ _Please don’t go._ ” he says softly, “ _Stay, Natalia._ ”

“ _James, I can’t._ ” she tells him, but he opens his eyes to look at her sleepily,

“ _I’m not asking for anything._ ” he tells her, “ _Only for you to stay. Surely my bed is comfier than the sofa_.” She _knows_ his bed will be comfier than the sofa, but she’s still reluctant, when she’s not sure if he’s James or Bucky or someone else entirely.

“James...” she says, now speaking English, “I don’t think we should—”

“What? Sleep?” he asks, his voice now Brooklyn. Is this Bucky? Or James? She would guess Bucky with the voice, but James with his expression. Maybe Banner was right about the personalities eventually merging to become one. “It can’t do any harm. Please stay." His voice is verging on pleading, and there's something about it that makes her _know_ this is Bucky, Bucky whom she has known for barely a few months, and yet he trusts her, trusts _her_ , the Black Widow, enough to sleep in the same bed. He wants her to, he wants her companionship, even though she is still half a stranger. When she doesn't move for a few moments; still halfway between getting up and lying back down, he adds, "You’ve shared a bed with Steve before, and Clint.”

She’s about to ask how he’d know this, but surely Steve tells him everything and it’s no secret that she and Clint are very close, even if they’re not romantically involved. Finding no more decent excuses, and that the crook of James’ arm (he will always be James to her, whether he speaks like a Brooklynite or a Moscow-nite, its just the name she refers to him as, and he likes it no matter who he is) is actually very comfortable, she instead settles down, and they fall asleep to her softly humming the tune of _Tili-Tili Bom_ , because for all its creepiness, it has a lovely melody, and there’s something gentle about it, despite the menacing sentiment. She decides that that sums up the two of them quite well.

And for the first time in decades, the Widow and the Soldier fall asleep in each other’s arms.


End file.
